


Kiss With A Fist

by Calex



Category: Original Work
Genre: Best Friends, Boarding School, Community: holidaysmut, M/M, Original Fiction, Original Slash, School Uniforms, Schoolboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calex/pseuds/Calex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes best friends can be a complete pain in the arse. For Briscoe and Jarrod, this was literal more often than not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss With A Fist

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't understand any of the British insults I've used, here's [a helpful list](http://septicscompanion.com/showcat.php?cat=insults). Title from a song by Florence + The Machine of the same name, and this story was written for the best friend challenge at [holidaysmut @ LJ](http://community.livejournal.com/holidaysmut).
> 
>  **Warnings:** Schmoop and friendly violence. And graphic sex. Which was entirely influenced by [](http://aggybird.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**aggybird**](http://aggybird.dreamwidth.org/), so some of you should know what you're getting yourselves into.

  
"I'm in trouble."

Briscoe looked up from his book at the plaintive whimper and saw Jarrod sprawled facedown on his bed, looking like he was half-trying to suffocate himself with Briscoe's pillow. Briscoe wished that he wouldn't – the pillowcase was a rather fine Egyptian cotton and white – though if the muffled sniffle he could just make out was any indication, Jarrod was merely rubbing and dripping snot on it. Sighing at that, he glanced back down at his book longingly.

As though deliberately taunting him, the scent of new-book wafted up to his nose. The pages felt smooth under his fingertips, as though begging to be touched, to be flipped over. Then another sniffle – louder this time – made him look towards his bed once more and he noticed that there was definite shoulder shaking going on. Oh fuckdamn it all.

Briscoe deliberately closed the book with a sharp snap, setting it down on his table before turning to face his best friend, the wheelie chair creaking a little at the move. Jarrod was now making little hurt animal noises, wet gasps and chokes and loud snorts as he tried not to snivel all over Briscoe's pillow. _Too late_ , Briscoe thought, sardonically, but he attempted to at least put on a sympathetic face. He knew he was failing though. It might have been easier if the scene was not such a familiar one. So familiar, in fact, that it was more like a weekly occurrence. Sometimes being the best friend of Jarrod Marshall was more work than it was worth.

"Jarrod," Briscoe tried, brows drawn together in an effort to sound patient and concerned, not world weary. "What's wrong now?" Oh hell. Jarrod was out and out _bawling_ now. Briscoe sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose, feeling his glasses slide up a little. "Talk to me, here. What's happened?"

"Nothing," Jarrod said, miserably. That made Briscoe's brows shoot up, before they drew together in a scowl. Nothing? _Nothing_? Jarrod was disturbing his peaceful reading time for _nothing_?! He didn't think so. Even Jarrod was not so stupid as to do _that_. Everyone knew how much his reading time meant to him. The last person who hadn't had ended up _crying_ from the acidic words Briscoe had said to him to make the idiot leave him alone.

No, Jarrod, who'd known him since both boys were in diapers, especially knew not to disturb him for no reason at all. Yes, Jarrod regularly made it his aim in life to annoy Briscoe by whinging about his trouble-of-the-week, but never during eight to ten o'clock at night, which was the time Briscoe had set aside for just the purpose of reading. Well, okay, not quite true. Jarrod _rarely_ interrupted him during that time, but there had been times when he had and he was probably the only person who could get away with doing just that and not be maimed or otherwise hurt in any other manner.

Still, Briscoe was tempted to chuck the thick hardcover text he'd been torn from just for this mysterious non-reason, and he looked at the book longingly for a long moment. Finally, though, he put such thoughts away. The last time he'd thrown a hardcover book at Jarrod's head, Jarrod had ended up in the San needing stitches and wasn't _that_ a delight to explain to the nurse? At least the woman was used to them both, after nearly seven years. She'd merely clucked her tongue, and advised Briscoe to throw a paperback next time. It wasn't quite as satisfying, but at least it didn't leave Jarrod bleeding and unconscious with open, gaping wounds that needed to be sewn closed.

"Jarrod shut the fuck up and tell me what's wrong."

Jarrod just made this sort of snort-sniffle sound again. Briscoe waited, but it appeared that that was all Jarrod was going to offer him, so with a sigh he pushed himself out of his chair and sat heavily on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, tipping Jarrod's body to the side, slightly and with a rough shove and push, Briscoe had Jarrod flat on his back.

And boy, was that not a pretty sight. Jarrod's face was a _mess_ , because Jarrod did not a pretty crier make. Briscoe blew out a part impatient, part tired breath and brushed the strands of red hair that was sweat dark and stuck to his forehead. Then he realised that despite the crying noises Jarrod had made and the misery in his voice, his eyes were only very slightly rimmed with red, as was his nose. The little shit. Annoyed, Briscoe tugged viciously at a strand of his damp fringe, making Jarrod flinch and swear in a pain filled voice.

"Put a sock in it," Briscoe snapped. "I didn't pull your hair that hard. Now are you more inclined to tell me _why_ you interrupted my reading and made a general nuisance of yourself crying and whining?"

"You're the worst best friend in the world." Jarrod muttered, shoving his hand away, lower lip jutting out in a pout. Briscoe had to admit that while Jarrod was the world's most unattractive crier, he was a first class pouter. He figured it had something to do with the dark red corkscrew curls and the huge blue eyes and the freckles. Jarrod had freckles almost _everywhere_ and Briscoe knew this for a fact because he'd been friends with Jarrod from when they were still young enough to take baths with toy ships and submarines and cars together.

Jarrod was, unfortunately, adorable. The kind of adorable that had older women clucking their tongues and cooing and pinching his naturally pink cheeks. It was a fact that had always pissed Jarrod off, especially when he got older because what self-respecting teenaged boy would like to be referred to as "adorable"? Briscoe, though, just thought the prick deserved it. Underneath his angelic looks was someone who lived to annoy him to no end. It was just his misfortune that he would be stuck with Jarrod for what looked to be a very long time.

"Yes, but you aren't any better. So are you going to just lie there and sulk or are you going to man up?"

Jarrod narrowed his eyes. Briscoe just waited patiently, because he knew there was nothing Jarrod hated more than pot shots at his masculinity. It took awhile, but eventually Jarrod just seemed to… melt against the mattress in a melancholic slump. Then he covered half his face with an arm and proceeded to imitate a fallen log.

Briscoe poked his shoulder. Jarrod didn't even blink in acknowledgement.

"Jarrod, speak or I'll throw you out of my room. Bodily. In fact, I'm rather tempted to do just that right now."

"I'm in pain," Jarrod whined, lowering his arm just enough to shoot Briscoe a reproachful look that did not do its job. Then again, Briscoe was rather hard to affect. "You should be more sympathetic."

"Since when have I ever been sympathetic towards your idiocies?" Briscoe snorted and Jarrod's lip pushed out even more. It even trembled a little. Unfortunately for him, Briscoe was immune, he'd spent far too much time with Jarrod after all, and there had to be some perks. Immunity against his highly effective puppy looks, sad faces and pouts was one of them. Finally, Jarrod scowled, losing the shiny-with-tears eyes and the trembling pink lips. He rolled to his side, moving in to curl himself around Briscoe and clung to him like a limpet.

Briscoe tried to shrug him off, but Jarrod just held on tighter and Briscoe knew through long experience that the more he tried to shrug him off, the tighter Jarrod would hold on. There had been an incident where Jarrod had wrapped his arms so tightly around Briscoe's neck and Briscoe had tried to fight him off so hard that Briscoe had actually ended up unconscious.

Jarrod was warm against his back and side, arm wrapped tight around Briscoe's waist and his face pressed against Briscoe's hip. Jarrod had even thrown a leg on top of his and really, his tendency to cling and cuddle and touch Briscoe _all the damn time_ was a large part of why everyone thought that they were dating. But did Jarrod realise that and stop? Oh no, that would have been too easy. Jarrod was just so _oblivious_ about it.

Briscoe was shaken out of his thoughts by overhearing the muffled, mumbled end of Jarrod's sentence. He blinked and paused, tried to process the sounds and compare it with any of the other Jarrod-language words that he knew. After a few moments, he had to shake his head. Absolutely no matches at all, he had no idea what the drivel Jarrod had spouted was, and it was probably drivel, too. Jarrod spouted little else.

"Please do repeat that. And in the English regular people speak, please." Jarrod punched him lightly but complied after a long, weary sigh.

"I'm horny."

Briscoe blinked. Then blinked again. Then blinked yet again. Finally, he pushed his glasses to the top of his head, pinched the bridge of his nose _hard_ and just sighed.

"Jarrod, you're a healthy teenaged boy. Of course you're horny. How is this a new development?"

"It's not that," Jarrod said, squirming and when Briscoe glanced down, he saw that the tips of Jarrod's ears were red with the flush that covered what little of his face that Briscoe could see. "Brisket, I'm horny _all the time_. It's getting ridiculous. I know we're supposed to be thinking about sex 24/7 but it's just… It's gone out of hand!"

Briscoe pinched Jarrod's arm hard at the use of that hated nickname before he leaned back, hands propped on the mattress behind Jarrod. He looked up to survey his ceiling and absently noticed that there were still a few glow-in-the-dark star stickers still stuck where Jarrod had put them, and he'd been too lazy to take off.

"Explain," he said, finally. Jarrod squirmed a little.

"How often do you, y'know, jerk off?"

Briscoe's eyebrow shot up at the question and he looked incredulously at Jarrod. Jarrod was steadfastly refusing to look at him, though, choosing instead to pick at the loose threads of the soft grey drawstring trousers Briscoe used to sleep in. He slapped Jarrod's hand away, but after a few seconds, they were back and Briscoe didn't even try to quell the urge to roll his eyes.

"You're not going to let off until I answer, are you?"

"I'd much rather you did."

"I have a complete idiot for a best friend," Briscoe muttered, before he let out a puff of breath. "Almost daily." Jarrod let out a soft sound that seemed to be part surprise, part distress and part something else Briscoe couldn't quite make out. He shifted so that he could balance on just one arm, and tugged gently at Jarrod's curls. "Why? What about you?"

"This week?" Jarrod asked, softly. "Nearly ten times a day. I hurt and my dick is aching and _raw_ but I can't _stop_."

Briscoe tugged a little too hard on Jarrod's hair in surprise and the other boy let out a genuine cry of pain and so Briscoe unconsciously slipped his fingers deeper in Jarrod's hair to rub soothing circles into the stinging scalp. He was more than a little shocked. Sure, there were times when he'd been immensely sexually frustrated when he'd masturbated quite a few times a day, but _everyday_? His mouth pursed when he realised that maybe Jarrod's little, made up problem wasn't so little and made up after all.

"That's… um."

"You're supposed to help me!" Jarrod wailed, the sound high pitched and distressing and it took everything he had not to plug his fingers into his ears. Then again, that could also be due to the fact that if he did, he'd fall over Jarrod and possibly crush him to death because while Briscoe was by no means fat, neither was he skinny. And he was just over six feet tall and despite being a bookworm, he was on the tennis team and thus had more muscles than his best friend. Who just happened to be about 5'6" if he was lucky and built like a twelve-year-old girl. Sports and Jarrod did not mix. Hell, _activity_ and Jarrod didn't mix.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm still stuck on the fact that for the past week, you've been jerking off ten times a day. That's a little excessive, to say the least."

"I knooooow," Jarrod moaned and curled up tighter around Briscoe. His face was pushed so hard against Briscoe's hip that he could feel Jarrod's nose squashing against his hipbone and he wondered if Jarrod was trying to suffocate himself on Briscoe. He hoped not, that would be a little difficult to explain, not to mention a little bit strange. He could just imagine the obituary, the headstone and the eulogy now. He shook his head to dislodge the bizarre thought. "Brisket, I'm going insane and I don't even know _why_."

"Well," Briscoe said, after a pause which he used to gather his thoughts because damn it, he was going to think through this _logically_. Logic had never failed him before, and he doubted it would fail him now. "How long has this been going on? I mean, did it just suddenly appear or was it more of a gradual thing?"

"Gradual," Jarrod said, glumly. "I noticed it about a month ago, but at least then I could handle it! But then it just went overboard and now I don't know what to do anymore."

"D'you, um," Briscoe cleared his throat and wondered how to phrase this more delicately. "Have you noticed if a specific person caused it? Or thing? Anything that changed from before?"

"You mean a crush?" Jarrod wrinkled his nose. "Not that I can _think_ of. I mean, I'm not sure if I'm subconsciously attracted to someone or something, but I'm quite sure that I don't. I haven't been hanging about anyone new or different lately."

"Right," Briscoe said, after a while. "Why don't we, um, leave it. For a bit. And see if there are any changes. Let me know if it gets better or worse, that sort of thing. And I'll keep a look out. Maybe I'll notice something you haven't."

Jarrod _beamed_ at him, before sitting up and slinging his arms around Briscoe's neck in a jubilant hug, before pressing a smacking, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou," Jarrod fairly squealed in his ear and Briscoe awkwardly patted his back. When Jarrod pulled back, his eyes were actually shining and he pressed another loud, obnoxious kiss on Briscoe's mouth. Briscoe sort of froze. He was used to loud, obnoxious kisses from Jarrod. He was used to Jarrod doing loud and obnoxious things in general. He was used to the hugging and the touching and the clinging and the cuddling. What he _wasn't_ used to was kisses on the mouth. From Jarrod. That was new and while not entirely unpleasant (aside from the actual technique, which was _nonexistent_ ), was definitely strange. "I take everything back, you're a _fantastic_ best friend."

"Er, yes," Briscoe said, dumbly, just staring at Jarrod. At Jarrod's mouth. _No_ , at Jarrod. In general. His whole large, stupid and entirely too adorable face. Oh god. Briscoe fought back a blush, and immediately felt appalled. He didn't blush. Briscoe was not a blush-er, so the fact that he'd felt a flush coming on was sort of like a bucket of ice water had been poured over him. He nearly shoved Jarrod away from him in his haste to get away, quickly getting off the bed and turning towards his closet. "Well, if we're done with this imbecilic charade, I'd like to go to sleep. It's nearing midnight."

"Yes, yes," Jarrod said, rolling his eyes. "God forbid the princess doesn't get his beauty sleep." Briscoe narrowed his eyes at Jarrod.

"I will hit you. And you know it'll hurt."

"Right, no more jokes." Jarrod was grinning, though, and Briscoe ground his teeth. Jarrod quickly stepped off his bed and stretched and Briscoe was absolutely _not_ staring as his school shirt lifted up a bit to reveal a stretch of bare skin. "Well, sweet dreams, fair princess. I'll see you tomorrow!"

Briscoe snarled, and slammed the door shut behind his laughing friend. When he was sure Jarrod was really gone, he walked slowly to his bed and fell face first, lying immobile for long moments. Then with a groan, he pushed a hand under his trousers and cursed Jarrod and Jarrod's stupid clinginess and stupid face and stupid _kisses_.

* * *

Over the next few days, Jarrod got better and Briscoe got worse. People had given him a wide enough berth before, but now they were careful to keep well out of his way. He was pretty sure that he'd seen a small third year student actually meep and turn tail when he'd seen Briscoe approaching. If he wasn't so fucking _frustrated_ , he might've found the sight amusing. As it was, Briscoe found very few things amusing anymore. That was to say, absolutely nothing. He couldn't even find solace in his reading hours anymore and that was truly unacceptable.

He was snapping and snarling a great deal, even the teachers had noticed. A few of the more well meaning ones had even pulled him aside and told him that if he ever wanted to "talk" they were there to listen. It made Briscoe want to hit something. Preferably Jarrod because this was entirely that idiot's fault. Even sports didn't help. No one wanted to practice with him after he'd sent three people to the infirmary with various injuries. It was times like these that Briscoe wished he'd played rugby or something. At least violence and a few injuries went relatively unnoticed there.

Then, there was that blasted promise he'd made to Jarrod. It had taken him a few days but when Jarrod had asked him hopefully if he'd noticed anything, he'd had to give in and start searching. And when he did, he started to notice things. Things about Jarrod. Like how the little idiot was actually quite popular. It hadn't come upon Briscoe's notice before other than in the vaguest sense, but Jarrod was always surrounded by people.

It was only natural, he supposed. Unlike Briscoe himself, Jarrod was a social creature. He was always vibrating with energy, and though he was quick to anger, he was also quick to forgive. And he was forever laughing and smiling and joking. He was popular with both the younger and older years. In fact, Briscoe was appalled to realise that Jarrod actually had _fans_. He didn't realise that such things went on outside of Japanese manga or anime, but Jarrod had a following.

Suddenly, whole resources in the school opened up to Briscoe. He discovered that the school paper ran a side business, operating a students-only newsletter that featured news that would _not_ be approved of by members of staff. It was a weekly newsletter, released alongside the official student newspaper and had things such as scandalous gossip and even a popularity poll.

It appalled him slightly, but at the same time, it fascinated him. Who would have thought? And not only that, but apparently Jarrod featured quite a lot in those polls (as did he, though it wasn't something he thought of in great depth, because it never failed to make him blush and stammer and then he had to hide his embarrassment behind scowls that he rather belatedly realise was actually part of his supposed "appeal". Then again, Briscoe had long thought that people in general were very, very strange beings indeed).

But back to the fan issue. Briscoe wasn't quite sure what to think about that. Jarrod didn't have a mass following or anything that dramatic, but he definitely had… _admirers_. If this was past Britain, Briscoe supposed he could liken the situation to a crowd of admirers coming to call to court Jarrod's society belle. However, immediately after having the thought, Briscoe had to give himself a small, physical slap because really, what on earth was he _thinking_? And he added his own fancies to a growing list of things that were all _Jarrod's_ fault.

But while he'd found that Jarrod had admirers, there were none that particularly stood out. Yes, he found a pattern, but that was fairly obvious. The boys who gathered around Jarrod like bees to honey were all tall, all bigger than him (though that wasn't particularly difficult) and all fairly well built. He supposed Jarrod could call to one's protective instincts. Briscoe supposed he could understand it, though more often than not, he was the very reason that Jarrod was frequently injured.

Briscoe was also absolutely _not_ going to think about how the sight of those people gathered around Jarrod made him feel like grinding his teeth.

After two weeks of observation, he had to admit defeat. Jarrod's original assessment of not having a crush seemed to be true. He did occasionally flirt (and outrageously, Briscoe had to add) but he never treated one particular person any differently than he treated the others. Well, aside from Briscoe, but that was probably due to the fact that they were childhood friends than anything else. Yes, Jarrod did cling to him more and touch him more and cuddle to him more, but he'd always done so. It did not mean anything more than it always had. Absolutely not. Briscoe was sure of it.

Well. He didn't think so, anyway. He didn't discern any difference in Jarrod's behaviour towards him. Did not notice any difference in his tone of voice or the direction of his gaze, nor did he find any particular hidden meaning to his words or actions. And if the fact made him irrationally irritated, he wasn't going to explore the reason behind it. It was, as he'd noted before, absolutely irrational. As Briscoe was – mostly – a rational person, he was just _not going to think about it_. The solution suited him just fine.

Besides, Jarrod hadn't come back to him complaining of his "problem" again, and for Jarrod, that usually meant that he'd forgotten all about his problem, or that it didn't affect him anymore. So Briscoe resolved to not think about it any more, and went about his life normally again. He'd go back to his usual routine and forget all about it and things would go back to how it'd always been.

Or at least, that was the plan.

Three weeks after _that_ , just by walking down the hallways of the school, people would part quickly for him like the red sea for Moses and if he wasn't in such a foul, agitated mood, he might have found amusement in that. Now, it wasn't merely small third years that he scared. Even some of the seniors jumped out of his way when he approached, snarling and scowling. Sometimes, though, the seniors were worse than the genuinely terrified younger years, because most of them looked at him with expressions that were all too clearly amused and empathetic. Oh yes, they were taking far too much pleasure out of his mood. The upper years in the tennis team, at least, he could take his frustrations out on but the others? Briscoe might be hot headed and a little reckless, but he wasn't _suicidal_ , so he had to satisfy himself with giving them looks that made even the strongest of men cringe back. Fat lot of good that did him, though.

And the reason? He seemed to have been infected by Jarrod's problem. Day after day, he was tormented with itchy fucking _need_ that crawled on his skin, whispering slyly in his ears. And what was worse, he knew _exactly_ the cause of his problem, and that cause was called Jarrod. And Jarrod, the prick, seemed to be completely ignorant. He had never wanted to thrash someone so badly in his _life_. All the time, his stupid mind offered him image after image of Jarrod – biting his lip in thought, eating a banana for breakfast, changing into his sports kit for field – and then there were the fantasies.

They were driving him more than a little insane. He'd never thought of Jarrod like that before and _okay_ , maybe that was a lie but he'd definitely not thought of Jarrod like that so constantly in his life. He was a normal, healthy teenaged boy; he couldn't help the things his mind provided him with in order for him to… _relieve_ himself. It wasn't exactly by his choice, after all. As was his current predicament because as bad as it had sounded when it had happened to Jarrod, it was about a million times worse when he was suffering through the very same thing.

It got to the point where the coach had to tell him that if he didn't tone down his aggression, he'd be put on reserve. Reserve, him! Briscoe hadn't been a reserve since he had managed to get into the team when he was a first year. He was still seething over the injustice when Jarrod finally cornered him, all concern, a few days later.

"Brisket?" Jarrod said, treading carefully. Briscoe glared balefully at him before resolving to ignore the person who had become the bane of his existence in the past few weeks. _Weeks_. That didn't deter Jarrod, though. The other boy pushed himself further into Briscoe's room, his sanctuary, and closed the door behind him before turning to face Briscoe, posture as though he was readying himself for the firing squad. Briscoe sneered at that, before resolutely turning back to his work. "Brisket, what's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Briscoe echoed, voice admirably mild. "What's wrong, you ask? Oh, nothing, Jarrod. Just _my life_."

"Mr. Davies told me that he talked to you," Jarrod began cautiously, and Briscoe snarled, hurling the heavy textbook he was holding at Jarrod's head. Jarrod moved with the reflexes honed by years of being Briscoe's friend, ducking from the projectile and watching in concern as the sharp, thick edge left a deep dent on Briscoe's door. The entire corridor of their dorm went silent, before the noise resumed, but at a quieter level. Briscoe could picture the ears straining and that made him snarl again, picking up his letter opener and pitching that towards the door, too. The sharp edge actually embedded itself into the wood, wobbling from the force of Briscoe's throw and the corridor went silent again, before multiple doors started slamming closed. Jarrod eyed it warily before edging further into Briscoe's room.

"Your mother would kill you if you kill me," he reminded Briscoe, and damn it all to hell, despite his bad mood, the words made Briscoe's mouth twitch. Fuck. Sighing and giving in, he waved Jarrod towards his bed with an irritable flick of his hand and Jarrod shot him another searching look before he accepted the invitation, perching himself gingerly on the edge of Briscoe's mattress. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"Why do you care?" Briscoe snapped petulantly, and Jarrod just shot him a look, before sighing.

"Because you're my best friend," he answered with exaggerated patience. "And sulking's supposed to be my forte, not yours."

"'M not sulking," Briscoe muttered, arms crossing. Jarrod just shot him the look again, and seriously, the world had gone completely nutters if _Jarrod_ was being the reasonable, mature one. "Oh, okay, maybe I am. Is that such a fucking problem?"

"Brisket," Jarrod sighed, before he inched closer to Briscoe and put his hand over Briscoe's. His palm was dry, and slightly callused though from what, Briscoe didn't know. It wasn't like Jarrod worked hard a day in his life. And if Briscoe chose to focus on that thought than… anything else, well, that was his business, wasn't it? "Come on, be a sport. Tell uncle Jarrod what's wrong."

Briscoe snorted at that, exasperation and affection colouring the sound. "Prick."

"Surly bastard," Jarrod shot back, and his tone was equally fond. "And don't think you can distract me."

"It's completely stupid and seriously, I don't want to talk about it to _you_."

Jarrod actually recoiled at that, his hand dropping from Briscoe's like he was burning him. His pale skin went paler, and his million freckles stood out starkly. Before he could move, though, Briscoe grabbed his hand and held on tight.

"Don't be an idiot, I didn't mean it that way."

"Well, how 'm I supposed to take it when you say something like that?" Jarrod shot back, stiffly, but at least he stayed put. Briscoe sighed heavily before he got up and joined Jarrod on the bed. He leaned back, balancing himself on his hands as his head tipped back enough for him to make out the no-longer-glow in the dark stickers on his ceiling.

"It's a little embarrassing, Jarrod."

"So?" Jarrod snorted. "This is _us_ , Brisket. This is _me_. Since when has embarrassment stopped us before?"

"I'm not a shameless idiot like you," Briscoe pointed out wryly, and Jarrod waved his hand dismissively.

"Minor details," Jarrod said, tone airy. Then he narrowed his eyes at Briscoe. "Which you should definitely overlook. Now _tell me_ , before I do something you're definitely not going to like."

Briscoe just raised an eyebrow slowly. He looked pointedly first at Jarrod, then at himself. Then at Jarrod again. His eyebrow inched upwards. Jarrod scowled, crossing his arms petulantly. "It doesn't have to be physical. Besides, just because I'm smaller than you are does _not_ mean that I can't hurt you. And you should know this by now, considering how many times I've aided in your trips to the infirmary."

"Yes," Briscoe said, tone dry. "And how many times have _I_ done the same to you?"

"Really, Brisket," Jarrod said, briskly. "Your delaying tactics are frightfully obvious and completely unsuccessful. You're lacking your usual believability."

"Is that even a word?" Briscoe asked, after a moment of considering silence. Jarrod shot him a look that left nothing to the imagination and Briscoe sighed, heavily. "I'm not going to talk about this with you. I just won't. Nothing you do is going to change my mind, so don't even bother. We're done, here."

"Oh, pah. That old tune is wearing thin – "

"I said leave it be, Jarrod," Briscoe snapped, a touch more sharply than he'd intended. It was only because Briscoe was looking at him that he caught the flash of hurt that was in Jarrod's eyes. But it was gone so quickly, though, that he had to wonder if he'd only imagined it.

Jarrod stood from the bed, his movements controlled. He brushed his palms over his clothes, straightening them before he stood up straight and went to face Briscoe squarely. Before Briscoe could blink or ask him what he was doing, Jarrod's hand flew and Briscoe felt sharp pain exploding from his cheek. His head was turned to the side with the force of Jarrod's slap, and his eyes were wide and shocked on Jarrod's tight lipped face.

"It was a slap and not a punch," Jarrod began, steadily. "Because you're my best friend and I do care a lot for you, despite the fact that you're a stupid jerk. Secondly, it was because I was hoping that maybe it would knock some sense into your head. I take a lot from you, Briscoe, because you take a lot from me but if you want a target to be a pissy little princess at, it won't be me." Then he whirled around and stalked off to the door. He paused just before he went out, though, to throw a few words behind his shoulder: "When you manage to get your head out of your arse, you know where to find me." With that, he walked out and slammed the door shut so hard, it rattled.

Briscoe stared at the door, his cheek still throbbing faintly. Placing a hand over the heat, he bit his lip as he let his eyelids drift shut. Then he flopped onto his back with a low groan. He was a sick, sick, twisted bastard, because fuck if that little slap didn't get him half hard. He was so very, very screwed.

* * *

Briscoe realised that he was a little bit out of his depth at the moment. Worse, because of what had happened, Jarrod refused to talk to him and instead spent all of his time with his gaggle of admirers. It used to be that Briscoe _never_ saw them but suddenly, they were everywhere: surrounding Jarrod, sucking up to Jarrod, carrying Jarrod things and giving him presents and making him smile and laugh and really, he was sure his teeth were going to just disappear one day from all the grinding. So he practiced a little bit of avoidance, himself.

Knowing Jarrod's time table was quite useful, it meant that Briscoe knew what places to avoid and when. And while both of them had chosen to do English Literature for their A-Levels, it was such a popular subject that there were six groups and he and Jarrod were in different groups. And while Jarrod had chosen to only keep three subjects for his A2, Briscoe had gone the extra mile and chosen to do five, which meant he was always kept busy, especially adding his training and practice for tennis.

He was in his room when Jack burst in at the end of the week. He looked harried, his usually stylishly tousled hair a complete mess. He came right up to Briscoe and stood over him, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently. Briscoe took a moment to get to the end of the page before he marked his place. Only then did he look up, a deliberately calm, neutral look on his face.

"May I help you?" Briscoe asked, tone frigidly polite. Jack scowled and leaned down, placing his hands on Briscoe's shoulders. Then he gripped hard, digging his nails in. Briscoe only just barely held in his wince.

"Start talking to Morgan again," Jack ordered, tone dark. "For the love of all that is good and right, talk to him again or I will end up having to explain why there are dead bodies piling in this school to the headmaster and probably to the police as well." He actually shook Briscoe, once, hard. "Do you understand? _Talk to him_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Briscoe said, calmly, after he picked up his fallen glasses. Then he blinked as Jack actually snarled.

"I'm talking about how you've been a complete and utter _beast_ for the past couple of months, and why suddenly Morgan seems to have turned into his evil twin. He's _impossible_ , none of us can control him. And Prewett, I absolutely _refuse_ to. Do you hear me? Managing Morgan is _your_ job, not mine, and I refuse to let myself be forced into being his babysitter ever again, so help me god." Briscoe let that sink in for a minute, then he felt his lips curve into a smirk. Jack stared at him without comprehension, then shook his head. "I swear, you're both completely bonkers. I wash my hands off of you."

With that, he turned smartly on his heel and walked away, making sure to slam the door hard behind him. Briscoe leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he grinned. Well, well. Who would have thought that avoiding Jarrod would aggravate him this much. That was quite entertaining, he had to admit. Maybe some of the pain and confusion he'd been in the past couple of months were worth it. Well, for now, he'd wait. He had a lot of planning to do.

* * *

Briscoe's plan was very meticulously carried out. He started with showing up occasionally around Jarrod, never alone, and always calm and composed. He would say a curtly polite 'good morning', but that was it. And he noticed that Jack was completely right. It had been difficult to hold back the grin that threatened to curve his lips when he saw the way Jarrod's jaw actually dropped in outrage as he'd walked away from the corner of his eye. And then Briscoe upped the stakes and was _nice_ to some people. His popularity soared and the more approachable he became to other people, the more Jarrod's mood soured. Oh yes, sometimes revenge was so very sweet. He considered this Jarrod's punishment for putting him through hell, however inadvertent it might have been.

Then he started to show up around Jarrod more often, and like Jarrod he had acquired a group of followers. People who watched him carefully and with awe, and then he let them touch him. Oh, he did love how hard Jarrod's jaw twitched when he saw someone touch him. Briscoe wasn't big on casual touching, the only person he had ever permitted to touch him had been Jarrod and Jarrod's displeasure at his allowing other people to do the same now was obvious and gratifying. Things were going so smoothly according to plan that Briscoe had trouble fighting back his chuckles whenever he saw Jarrod. At least until Jarrod started flirting with _him_.

He'd be more amused at Jarrod's transparency if Jarrod hadn't chosen his goddamned _rival_ to flirt around with. Drew Stirling, another singles tennis player whose family had been rivals with Briscoe's own since their grandparents' time. Drew was Briscoe's opposite, the stereotypical blond, blue eyed sportsman with big, white teeth and a big, white smile, wide shoulders and a constant all over tan that never paled no matter what time of year it was. It didn't help that Drew and he both shared the same taste in both boys and girls and Drew seemed to make it his mission in life to make Briscoe's own life hell. Briscoe had lost count of the amount of boyfriends and girlfriends that Drew had stolen from him, but to be fair he had done the very same.

Their animosity probably wasn't helped by the fact that they had briefly dated, themselves. Back when they'd been rebelling against their families and were young and hormonal and stupid and stupidly horny. Jarrod never knew that, but Jarrod knew everything else and that should have kept him away from Drew except obviously Jarrod wasn't really feeling charitable towards Briscoe. The problem was, it only served to piss Briscoe off.

Which was why he might have made the rash decision that led to Jarrod walking in on their English teaching assistant giving Briscoe a blowjob. He'd expected it to be killing two birds with one stone – get rid of his stupid sexual frustration while showing Jarrod that his petty little revenge wasn't working on Briscoe – except he'd caught sight of Jarrod's face before his best friend had slammed the door behind him. Jarrod's face had gone starkly pale, eyes huge and betrayed and so fucking _hurt_. And Briscoe realised that he'd probably made a huge mistake.

* * *

Briscoe was a planner. He came up with highly organized, detailed plans and he followed it through step by step. He also wasn't one for grand gestures but he'd followed a plan. He'd tried subtle and, okay, a little malicious but it had all backfired. Now it was Jarrod who was avoiding him, and Jarrod did it with that hurt still on his face and fucking Drew right next to him hoping to catch all the pieces as he fell. And Briscoe realised then that he wasn't going to let Drew do that, wasn't going to let Drew just walk in and sweep Jarrod off his feet because that was _Briscoe's_ job. Had been ever since they were young because Jarrod was his. His best friend. He wondered how long he'd been in love with Jarrod, and how he could've missed it when it was so blindingly obvious to him now.

So yeah, Briscoe wasn't one for big gestures, but Jarrod was. Big, grand gestures that fed on his sense of drama and Briscoe had a feeling that if he wanted to make things right – and he did – he'd have to play on that, had to give Jarrod what he thrived on. He had to do things Jarrod's way, especially if he wanted to convince Jarrod that he was sincere. And okay, he was still a planner so he planned. He gathered a group of people because he couldn't do this particular thing on his own. And he figured what was a little embarrassment if it would lead to him getting something that was so important, and Briscoe wasn't going to settle for failure. He was in this to goddamn _win_ , fuck all the consequences.

He timed it perfectly. Bribed the guy who was in charge of making the morning announcements. Made sure that it was on the headmaster's day off because while the headmaster was a dick and a half, the Vice Principal was alright, since he was young and a bit of a soft touch. And shit, he didn't want to admit it but he was so nervous, so scared that everything was going to go balls up and he'd lose the most important thing in his life.

Briscoe and Jarrod were in different tutor groups, but Briscoe knew who the teacher in charge of Jarrod's tutor period was on a Wednesday morning. He'd even managed to get the woman's help because like the Vice Principal, she was a bit of a soft touch and she was a huge romantic. Once he'd explained what was going to happen, her eyes had gone big and soft and she'd looked at Briscoe like he hung the fucking moon and he was kind of glad that she was married, because that expression scared him a little. Then the day came and Briscoe didn't have the luxury to be nervous anymore.

* * *

" – the senior tennis first and second teams, the under 16 tennis first and second teams, and the under 14 tennis first and second teams all won against St. Pips Boys' College. Announcements: Mr. Hole of Biology wants to remind everyone that no one should throw litter in the Biology pond in the quod; it's mucky enough as it is. Miss Henderson from the sixth form library wants to remind the sixth formers that fines are going up for late returns and will now be 50p per day for the first week, then £1 a day the following week. If you've lost the book or books that you've borrowed, quickly report it to the library as it will undoubtedly end up saving you a great deal of money. The prefects will be announcing the results of the prefect nominations at the end of the week. Finally, will Jarrod Morgan please make your way to the Prince's Hall after morning announcements are done? That is all, thank you and good day."

Jarrod's head jerked up at the sound of his name and he stared at the speaker at the front of the room before turning his attention to teacher taking over tutor period that day. She was smiling at him and making shooing gestures, to his confusion.

"You'll want to hurry, Mister Morgan," she said, and he could've sworn that she was trying not to giggle. That just disturbed him. A lot. Still confused, he got up and started to make his way to the hall. He was only half aware that his classmates had got up to follow him, or the fact that a lot of people poked their heads out of their classrooms to stare at him and laugh as he walked towards his destination. And how some of them got up to follow the steadily growing group behind him. He was trying to figure out what was going on. The announcement hadn't said who'd asked for him, or what they wanted. He wasn't due for a meeting or practice about the sixth form production, so he was at a complete loss.

When he arrived at the hall, he looked around but it took him a long time before he noticed what was waiting for him. Mainly because it was on the stage and Jarrod hadn't thought anyone would be on the stage. Movement caught his eye, though, and he started violently when he saw Briscoe. Briscoe standing on the stage with a band behind him, and Briscoe himself was holding an acoustic guitar and looking right at Jarrod. His gaze was intense, hooded, held a million things that Jarrod couldn't make out and Jarrod found himself walking closer to the stage, eyes locked on Briscoe's even as people filled in behind him, chattering and talking and staring at the band.

Briscoe walked up to the mic, still locking eyes with Jarrod before he smiled. And fuck, fuck it _hurt_ because it had been so long since Briscoe had smiled right at him and damn it, he _missed_ him, missed his best friend and their easy camaraderie and what the hell had happened? How the hell did they let things become so fucked up for so damned long? He had never gone more than a few days without talking to Briscoe before, and it had been nearly a month since their fight. He hadn't realised how lonely it was without Briscoe until Briscoe was no longer there. And he didn't realise how much it hurt that he wasn't Briscoe's most important person until Briscoe started having other people hang around him all the damn time, people _not him_ , and since when was he a possessive, jealous freak?

"Jare," Briscoe murmured into the mic, and the entire hall went suddenly quiet. "This is for you."

And Briscoe started playing. And Jarrod wanted to laugh and he wanted to cry, because leave it to Briscoe to do this and get things so right.

Jesus Christ, how did Briscoe do this? How could he do this to Jarrod so easily, make him forgive him so effortlessly? Briscoe didn't advertise it, and no one except Jarrod knew how good Briscoe was at music, at singing and playing the guitar and he knew that it was Briscoe that had changed the song up a little, made it more rock but seriously, only _Briscoe_ would think to sing Tenacious D's _Dude, I Totally Miss You_ to apologise. And it was obvious that this was Briscoe apologising, in public and doing something that was undoubtedly embarrassing for him, all for Jarrod. And if he weren't already in love with Briscoe, this would've made him fall all the way. Because he was pretty sure he'd always loved his Brisket.

Jarrod was cheering the hardest when Briscoe and his quickly assembled band went into the instrumental break, but he wasn't the only one. People were screaming and whistling and when Jarrod looked around, he was completely shocked at how filled up the hall had got when he didn't notice. Even teachers filled the room, clapping. A few someone were wolf whistling, and everyone was sort of grinning knowingly at Jarrod.

Jack walked up to Jarrod's side, shaking his head as he looked up at the stage and Briscoe who had exchanged his acoustic for an electric and was rocking it up. His mouth was quirked in a grin and he looked reluctantly admiring before he turned to look at Jarrod.

"If you don't forgive him after this, he's going to be stolen away from right under your nose."

"Fat fucking chance," Jarrod snorted, eyes gravitating back to Briscoe. "He's mine."

"Never doubted it," Jack said, then clapped Jarrod on the back. And Jarrod smiled because yeah, neither had he, not really.

* * *

It took a while, but Jarrod cornered him after the show. Cornered him after he'd given each band member a hi-five or shook their hands, after the surge of people pouring congratulations was starting to make his brows draw together and his head to ache, after he was told he'd be serving "detention" to make up for people missing class. But right when he thought he couldn't handle any more and that he was going to snap, just roar and stomp his way through the crowd regardless of what or who he might have to step on, Jarrod came up, grabbed his arm and literally dragged him away. To the whistles and amusement of the watching crowd. Briscoe paid them no mind, because Jarrod's jaw was set and his face was turned away, but his hold on Briscoe's arm was firm and wasn't letting go any time soon. Frankly, Briscoe felt like he was on the verge of wetting himself, and he was almost tempted to just break free of Jarrod's hold and make a run for it.

They reached Briscoe's room and Jarrod practically shoved him in before closing the door resolutely behind himself and Briscoe heard the lock slide into place with an ominous sounding click. He licked his lips, watching warily as Jarrod prowled towards him to stop barely inches away. He could feel Jarrod's body heat through his clothes, could feel the fan of his breath against his neck through his open collar. His tie was somehow missing, probably lost in the debacle that his apology performance had turned into.

Jarrod's face was an unreadable mask. But Briscoe couldn't help but reach out a hand he was ashamed to say was trembling slightly, cupping Jarrod's cheek. His knees almost buckled in relief when Jarrod nuzzled into the touch, and he let out a sigh of gratitude as he slid his fingers into Jarrod's curls before the fingers curled, clenching silk in his fist. The move tilted Jarrod's head back so that Briscoe could see into his eyes, wide and thickly lashed and so dark with _want_ that Briscoe felt almost giddy with it.

"I'm going to hope," Jarrod started, tone soft and almost managing to be casual. "That you didn't mean to just apologise for being a rubbish mate."

"That wasn't the full intention, no," Briscoe breathed. Then he leaned down and hoped that actions, in this case, spoke louder than words. And sealed their mouths together. The kiss was tentative at first, both scared and waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the other person to shove them away and tell them that they got the completely wrong idea but when neither did, they started to relax, to open up. Briscoe flicked at Jarrod's lips with his tongue and Jarrod opened them with a soft moan, Briscoe deepening the kiss by slow, torturous degrees.

He nibbled on lips that had been naturally pale pink since he was little, a colour so many had claimed to be artificial but Briscoe felt the rush of victory at discovering himself that the words were false – even though he knew that already – as he felt just soft skin beneath his own. Although theirs had always been a tactile relationship, the kiss was new: lips on lips something that had happened only once before and even then was just an exuberant, platonic peck. This was the furthest thing away from platonic and Briscoe took a moment to revel in that before he pulled back slightly, watching Jarrod's face, taking in the slight flush of his cheeks, the wetness of his lips, the glazed over eyes. Yes, very far away from platonic indeed, and why had it taken them this long to discover that part of their relationship?

"Brisket," Jarrod murmured, lifting up on his toes to catch Briscoe's mouth again and Briscoe went willingly, moaning himself into the kiss as it got hotter, more demanding. Jarrod's hands started moving, sliding down his chest before dipping underneath his shirt to touch bare skin and he shivered at the contact, something else that was both old and new at the same time. Things progressed quickly after that, hands feverishly undoing buttons and shedding shirts aside to feel bare skin, and then Briscoe stumbled, shoved back onto his bed by Jarrod before he climbed up, straddling Briscoe's hips.

"You," Jarrod said, breathlessly. "Are a complete idiot." He didn't give Briscoe a chance to protest, just leaned right down so their chests were pressed tight together, moaning with complete abandon at the feel of bare skin sliding against bare skin. His thighs tightened against Briscoe's sides, hands sliding to grip Briscoe's and brought them above his head. Briscoe let him, finally giving in to the clamouring demands of his body, arching up with a groan as they ground together, Jarrod's tongue tangling with his in his mouth. His head was spinning, lost in the feel of Jarrod's weight sinking his body down into the mattress, the taste of Jarrod's mouth.

Christ, he wanted this. Had wanted it for months. He'd spent countless hours every day imagining what Jarrod would feel like, would taste like, would look like. He'd gone into great detail imaging just what Jarrod would sound like, but nothing his imagination had provided him with prepared him for the reality of Jarrod. It didn't prepare him for the flush that coloured Jarrod's already rosy cheeks, creeping down his neck to his chest. It didn't prepare him for the sounds that Jarrod made, self-satisfied and _hungry_ , like Briscoe was the tastiest snack in the history of ever. It didn't prepare him for the reality of Jarrod's taste: the Red Bull he was so addicted to, too sweet, in Briscoe's opinion, except when it was from Jarrod's mouth, along with something light and tangy and Jarrod.

Briscoe went to wrap his arms around Jarrod, needing him even _closer_ , when he encountered a slight problem. Frowning against Jarrod's eager mouth, he tried again. And again. His fuzzy brain was trying to tell him something and it took him long seconds – distracted as he was by Jarrod slowly and tauntingly grinding down against his cock – to realise that his hands were still above his head and weren't moving. He tried to pull away, but Jarrod sank his fingers in Briscoe's hair, holding his head in place. Well, it wasn't like Briscoe was eager to break away from the kiss, but really, there was something wrong and Jarrod was always a pushy, greedy bastard. So he bit down on Jarrod's lip, hard, making the other boy hiss in pain and pull away just enough for Briscoe to tilt his head back far enough to see his hands and _holy fucking shite_ , what the hell?

"Surprise," Jarrod said, and he sounded thoroughly smug. Briscoe's head swivelled quickly to him and he saw Jarrod smirking, sitting back comfortably on his heels. His lips were swollen and slick, dark red against his pale skin and Briscoe growled, tugging against his restraints and really, a _tie_? Bloody hell, he was confiscating Jarrod's laptop and checking what kind of porn he was watching, because obviously Jarrod needed to get a new hobby.

"Jarrod," Briscoe growled, trying to yank his hands free. The silk tie dug in tight, and he winced. "Let me go, you complete wanker."

"Mmm," Jarrod hummed thoughtfully, tongue peeking between his teeth as he tilted his head like he was thinking. Then his lips curved into a wicked smirk. "Maybe later. And only if you beg me prettily."

"How prettily?" Briscoe asked, arching his hips up to press himself more firmly against Jarrod. Jarrod's eyes fluttered shut as he let out a long, drawn out, breathless moan. He grinned, hips circling sensuously and watched as Jarrod actually panted, nails digging into Briscoe's hips. There would be marks later, but Briscoe didn't really mind. He'd grown used to having Jarrod's marks on him, and his on Jarrod and the thought merely pleased him now. It was just another way to show people that Jarrod was _his_ , damn it. No matter how many fans he had, and how hard they tried to get Jarrod's attention. Jarrod had been his ever since they were children, and no one was going to get between them to steal what was rightfully his.

"Oh, you're definitely on the right track," Jarrod drawled, tone husky and hitting Briscoe right in the gut. Fuck, _fuck_ , he'd never known Jarrod could sound like that, like sex and sensuality and all things wicked. Jarrod's tongue darted out to wet his lips and Briscoe nearly growled again, straining, wanting to lick those lips himself, wanting to get that tongue in his mouth again. "But later. Much later. I've got plans, Brisket, and you're not distracting me from them."

"Plans?" Briscoe asked, tone wary, and Jarrod laughed, dragging his nails down Briscoe's chest, leaving lines of red before bending down and following the trail with his tongue. Briscoe hissed and Jarrod laughed against his skin.

"Plans," Jarrod confirmed, agreeably. He shifted, and then his hands were smoothing down the flat planes of Briscoe's stomach, feeling the muscles jump at his touch, before resting at his waistband. "And you're going to lie there and enjoy it."

"Fuck," Briscoe said, succinctly, and Jarrod actually giggled, bright and bubbly and so _happy_ that Briscoe felt his lips twist into a grin because it had been so long since Briscoe was the cause of Jarrod's happiness, the cause for that dizzying brightness on Jarrod's face.

"Later," Jarrod promised, and he leaned down and kissed Briscoe, long and slow and so damned sweet. He hadn't thought it'd be sweet with Jarrod, but it was. And he really shouldn't be surprised, because who knew Jarrod better than he? And he'd always known Jarrod would be capable of such sunny sweetness.

"Always knew you were a kinky bastard," Briscoe breathed against Jarrod's lips and Jarrod laughed, shoulders shaking with mirth. He rested his forehead against Briscoe's for a while as he tried to get his breath back, rubbing his nose against Briscoe's.

"Shut up, Brisket," Jarrod said with a grin, and kissed the retort right out of Briscoe's brain. His hands had started moving, sweeping over Briscoe's chest, fingers teasing against his nipples until Briscoe growled, arching his chest up to the touch. Jarrod nipped reprovingly at his lips even as he moved to comply, flicking the hardening tips. His lips trailed down, teeth nipping at Briscoe's chin, tongue dragging down Briscoe's neck, nibbling across Briscoe's shoulders. Then that hot, wet mouth closed over a nipple and he sucked, making Briscoe cry out. Briscoe was so goddamn hard, painfully so, but this was Jarrod's show. He understood that much. He'd allow that much, at least for now.

Jarrod left his nipple to drop teasing nips and kisses down his stomach, tongue swirling in his navel before he was breathing hot against Briscoe's straining erection. Briscoe's hips bucked and he let out a sharp cry as Jarrod mouthed at his cock through the heavy cloth of his uniform trousers. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms and silk digging into his wrists as Jarrod moved more comfortably between his legs, pushing until he was cradled between Briscoe's knees. And when Jarrod tugged his zipper down with his teeth, Briscoe thought he might just come right then and _Jesus Christ_ he was going to kill whoever had taught Jarrod that particular move.

"Shit, Jarrod," Briscoe breathed, moaning as Jarrod dragged his trousers and boxer briefs down his legs, throwing them carelessly over his shoulder. Jarrod's hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking idly, the touch electrifying but too light to be satisfying. He tried to thrust up into Jarrod's loose fist, but Jarrod's free hand had gone to his hip, pushing it down, nails digging in hard in reminder. Briscoe held still, but still hissed. "Harder, _fuck_ , you fucking _tease_."

"You have _no idea_ how long I've waited for this," Jarrod breathed, then he bent down and took the head of Briscoe's cock into his mouth, cheeks hollowing deep. Briscoe howled, head flying back, pulling against his restraints as Jarrod's grip went to the base of his cock and his head went down, swallowing more of Briscoe's length. He could hear words, babbling, cursing, praise spilling from his lips but he could make any sense out of it, not when he had that perfect hot, wet suction around his dick, the almost obscene sound of slick spit and lips sliding tight over flesh, and the knowledge that it was _Jarrod_ that was trying to drain his soul out from his cock.

Jarrod's hand went down to cup his balls, rolling them in his hand, tugging gently before clever fingers went to the sensitive skin just behind and just that had Briscoe jerking, writhing, coming and Jarrod pulled just far enough to seal his lips around the head of Briscoe's cock, fucking _swallowing_ his come and _bloody fucking hell_.

"Ungh," Briscoe said after a long moment, breath still coming out in harsh pants. Jarrod lifted his head, chuckling, thumb coming up to brush the corner of his mouth where a bit of Briscoe's come had leaked out. He moved as though to wipe it away, then paused, a glint appearing in his eyes. Then he moved to curl around Briscoe's side and before Briscoe knew what he was planning, he'd popped that thumb into Briscoe's mouth, making him taste his own release and Briscoe groaned because really, he should've known.

"Fuck, you really are a kinky bastard."

"But you love that about me," Jarrod threw that out like it was a joke, but Briscoe saw the flash of insecurity in his eyes. He wanted to roll his eyes, but then paused. Why waste a perfectly good action when the situation called for it? So he made sure Jarrod was looking at him before he rolled them, dramatically.

"Come here, you insecure freak." Jarrod's lips curved into a small smile and he leaned in close, pressing their mouths together, just a slow brush of lips, tender. Briscoe could feel Jarrod against his hip, cock hard and probably aching. He nibbled on Jarrod's bottom lip. "Is it my turn yet?"

"Yeah," Jarrod murmured, and leaned up to release him from the tie. The minute his hands were free, Briscoe dragged Jarrod back onto his lap and smoothed his hands down his smooth chest, against the small, perfect nipples. Dragged his nails down to where fine red hair disappeared under his waistband. He tugged a little, making Jarrod wince.

"You're beautiful," Briscoe murmured, and Jarrod blushed, uncharacteristically shy under his best friend's frank appraisal. Briscoe lifted a hand to thread through Jarrod's red curls, silk soft and so damned pretty. He'd always thought so, even as a child. It had been the reason why he'd broken Jamie Earnshaw's nose when they were ten, and Jamie had snipped off a chunk of Jarrod's hair as a joke. "God, you've been driving me insane."

"So have you," Jarrod retorted, rediscovering his tongue. "Not that you bloody noticed, you four-eyed ponce."

"Poufter."

"Old codger."

"Nancy git."

"Gormless idiot."

They smiled at each other and Briscoe framed Jarrod's face with his hands before pulling his face down for another kiss, longer this time, lingering. When they pulled away, both were short of breath and flushed. Briscoe tucked a stray curl behind Jarrod's ear and Jarrod's breath caught. Briscoe looked puzzled.

"What?"

"That," Jarrod said, and circled Briscoe's wrist loosely to hold it in place. "It's why I fell in love with you in the first place. You're a right tosser most of the time, but then you do something like that, something so unexpectedly sweet."

"You're off your rocker," Briscoe snorted, but he was flushing with embarrassment. Jarrod just grinned, giving Briscoe another quick kiss.

"Plus, you look so cute when you blush," he whispered and Briscoe had to laugh, shoving at Jarrod's shoulder.

"Now I know you're taking the piss."

"I'm not, you know," Jarrod said, and his tone was completely serious now. Briscoe stilled, looking up into his face and brushed a finger over Jarrod's lip. Jarrod smiled, placing a small kiss on the tip before nipping playfully. "I'm always serious when it comes to you. I'm completely mad about you."

Briscoe felt himself reacting to the words, the sincerity of them, the sweetness in them. His hands went to Jarrod's hips, and then he twisted them, pushing Jarrod down into the mattress. He bent his head to steal another kiss, closing his eyes as he lost himself in it, in Jarrod. He felt Jarrod's hands moving restlessly on his chest, body shifting impatiently. He pushed a knee between Jarrod's thigh, dragged it up to press against Jarrod's hard dick and had him gasping into Briscoe's mouth, a needy moan spilling over.

Briscoe's own hands were busy undoing Jarrod's trousers, shifting to pull them off long, slender legs before pitching them off the bed. He ran his hands up trembling thighs, rubbing soothing circles into the skin as he placed a kiss on Jarrod's inner thigh, so close to his leaking cock that Briscoe's cheek brushed against the satiny skin. But he trailed kisses down his thigh to his knee before switching to his other knee, this time the kisses trailing upwards. He pushed a knee up, fingers curling on the sensitive skin behind Jarrod's knee and heard Jarrod cry out.

"Brisket," Jarrod moaned brokenly. "Please."

Briscoe kissed Jarrod's knee again before he reached over to his bedside table and took out a tube of lube and a condom. Then he sat back, watching Jarrod spread out on his bed, naked and flushed and panting, hands trying to pull Briscoe close again. He caught one of Jarrod's hands, twining their fingers together before he pressed a kiss to Jarrod's wrist.

"I don't want to presume," he said, haltingly. "I want… I need to know how far you want to take this."

Jarrod let out a delicate growl, eyes opening to glare at Briscoe, before he looked pointedly down first at his hard cock, then at the lube lying next to Briscoe. "I," he said deliberately. "Would very much like you to put your dick into my arse. Preferably now. Or is that presumptuous on my part?" He added, mockingly. Briscoe's breath caught even as he reflexively swatted at Jarrod's thigh for his comment. Fuck, okay, he'd hoped it would get to this but he hadn't really _believed_ it was possible.

"Have you? Before?"

"Oh fucking hell, Brisket!" Jarrod said, exasperatedly. "No, you idiot, I haven't despite any dubious rumours there might be about me. Yes, I'm sure, about the rumours and the virginity. Yes, I would like you to commence with my cherry popping. Now fuck me before I scream my head off and bring everyone in here."

Briscoe thought for a moment, before shaking his head, smiling indulgently at Jarrod as he thumbed the lube open to spill some, slick and wet, on his fingers. "Next time," he said, conversationally. "I pick the method of play. And I'm bringing a gag so that you'll shut up, for once. And I'll watch you make your face sopping wet while your drooling for more. Because you're gagging for it, aren't you, Jare?"

Then with no warning, he pressed a finger into Jarrod, the slick making his finger slip in easy and smooth and Jarrod jerked, tightening around his finger and whimpering at his words. Briscoe hissed, finger curling unconsciously as he felt Jarrod clamp down tight around him, clenching around his finger. The move had Jarrod's eyes going wide, and he let out a high pitched whine, back curving into a tight arch. Briscoe's eyebrow flew to his hairline and he moved his finger carefully before he realised what the reason for Jarrod's dramatic action was. Huh. Well, accidental or not, that was pretty damn lucky.

"Right here?" Briscoe asked, pressing close to breathe the words into Jarrod's ear. Jarrod was babbling, panting, writhing at his touch as Briscoe moved his finger slowly in and out before adding another, opening him up slow and careful. He brushed over Jarrod's prostrate teasingly, gritting his teeth as he felt Jarrod try to pull his fingers in deeper, cock already so damned hard again that it was leaking. But Jarrod… Jarrod's cock was dark and looked painful, so close. Briscoe bent down and took him into his mouth, just let it slide along his tongue and down his throat as he added a third finger and Jarrod jerked again, letting out a wail. His fingers gripped Briscoe's hair, grabbing fistfuls of it but Briscoe growled in warning, pulling off. He didn't want Jarrod coming, not yet.

"Not yet," he murmured, with a last lick. "I want you to come with my dick so far inside you that you'll feel me for days, squeezing me tight."

"Fuck," Jarrod said, dazed. "If you want that, then you better get in me now. I'm too bloody close."

"Yeah, okay," Briscoe said, voice tight. He pulled back, tearing the condom packet open with his teeth before rolling it down his painfully hard cock before smearing the leftover lube from his hand over it. He knee walked between Jarrod's thighs, pulling him down so that his legs were around Briscoe's waist, hips tilted up. He positioned his cock at Jarrod's slick hole before pushing in, slow and steady, jaw tight and hands hard around Jarrod's hips until he completely filled his best friend. Then he let his head fall back with a long moan, hands clenching. "So tight, Jare. So fucking _tight_."

Jarrod whimpered a little, breathing hard as he tried to adjust. Briscoe heard the sound, heard the pain in it, and immediately wrapped a hand around Jarrod's cock, stroking it slowly until the too tight squeeze of Jarrod's body relaxed around him, until Jarrod's head thrashed and he made that hot, toofuckingsexy little impatient whine at the back of his throat, hips pushing into Briscoe's to get him deeper.

"Move," Jarrod growled. "Fucking, _move_ , godamn it!"

"Shh," Bricoe said, but then he pulled one of Jarrod's legs up over his shoulder, bracing his hand on his thigh and experimentally pulled out the tiniest amount before grinding back in, deeper. Jarrod let out a gasping moan and Briscoe smiled, feral. Excellent. He moved teasingly slow, little thrusts that had Jarrod cursing and whimpering and threatening. But when Jarrod moved on to begging, mindless now, he finally picked up the pace; hard thrusts that pushed Jarrod further and further up the bed until his head banged against the headboard. But Jarrod didn't even care, didn't even feel the sting, nails scratching and clawing at Briscoe's arms and shoulders, wherever he could reach. Then Briscoe shifted and the new angle had him hitting Jarrod's prostate. Jarrod arched so hard that his back lifted off the mattress, letting out a shocked scream.

"There," Jarrod gasped. "Theretherethere, fucking _there_ , Briscoe, god, don't stop, please fuck me, fuck, harder, _Briscoe_!"

They were both sweating, bodies slick with it, flushed and hot and slippery. Briscoe felt his balls tightening, tingling, and knew he was close. But he wanted to see Jarrod come, see his face, feel him clamp and squeeze around Briscoe's dick until Briscoe came. So he reached out a hand and fisted Jarrod's cock. It only took a few strokes before Jarrod went tight, clenching so hard around Briscoe that he felt himself go nearly blind with the pleasure before he let out a sound close to a sob. There was so much of it, thick and messy on Jarrod's stomach and Briscoe let the wet warmth, the squeeze around him bring him to his own climax. He gave one last hard thrust, shouting as he came, shaking.

He fell on top of Jarrod, boneless and completely satiated. His back was a sore, throbbing burn and he smiled, thinking of the marks there, _Jarrod's_ marks, claiming him. But he needed to move, didn't want to crush Jarrod, so pushed himself up on a shaking arm as he slipped out, removing the condom and tying it off. He threw it carelessly into the bin before his eyes caught sight of Jarrod and he felt his breath catch.

Jarrod's eyes were shut, face absolutely blissful. He was sticky with sweat and his own come, lying spread eagle on Briscoe's bed and taking up all the space. Briscoe's hand ran over his stomach, painting abstract images with Jarrod's come before he dragged a messy line of it from the corner of his jaw to his lips. Before Jarrod could complain, Briscoe leaned forward and followed the trail with his tongue, kissing Jarrod deeply as he got to his mouth. This was his best friend, this was _Jarrod_. And that was probably one of the best fucks he'd ever had.

"And you call me a kinky bastard," Jarrod murmured into his mouth and Briscoe grinned, pushing back sweat dark hair away from where it had stuck to his face.

"You are, but I guess that only makes sense, considering who you learnt it from."

"I'm too satisfied to even say anything to that," Jarrod muttered, before he pulled Briscoe beside him, immediately snuggling into his side. "Now shut the fuck up, you wore me out."

"Not yet," Briscoe grinned. "But I'll definitely wear you out in an hour."

"Smug bastard."

"Yeah," Briscoe said, contentedly. "I am."

Jarrod bit him hard on the shoulder and he just laughed. He was just starting to drift into sleep when Jarrod spoke again, mouth pressed against his shoulder so that the words buzzed against his skin, more vibration than audible.

"So I'm guessing this means you like me." Briscoe pulled back so he could look down at Jarrod in complete disbelief. It took him a moment to place the fact that Jarrod was smirking, and he cuffed the back of Jarrod's head lightly for the jest.

"Idiot."

"That fucking hurt, you abusive beast."

"That was a love swat, so stop your whinging, you brat."

"If I knew being sexually frustrated would turn you into an idiotic, sadistic bastard, I would've planned more carefully," Jarrod muttered, face turned towards Briscoe so that Briscoe could get the full force of his scowl. Briscoe froze, then stared very, very carefully at Jarrod.

"Are you saying," he began, tone painfully even. "That all of that too much masturbation crap and the touching and the kissing was your idea of testing out my feelings for you?" Jarrod suddenly took on an expression very much like a deer looking into the headlights of an on-coming car.

"Er, could I plead the fifth?"

"You – " Briscoe dissolved into fluent cursing as he pounced on his best friend, pinning him down as he smacked his pillow into Jarrod's head again and again, ignoring his shouting and struggling.

Well. He guessed they were back at familiar territory, at least. He supposed it was too much to hope that their relationship would be anything but volatile. Then again, he thought as he started to dig his fingers into Jarrod's extremely ticklish sides, he wouldn't very well be interested if it wasn't.


End file.
